The Happy Venture eBook

But even the joy of April on the bayside was shadowed
when the mail came to Applegate Farm that day.
The United States mail was represented, in the environs
of Asquam, by a preposterously small wagon,—­more
like a longitudinal slice of a milk-cart than anything
else,—­drawn by two thin, rangy horses that
seemed all out of proportion to their load. Their
rhythmic and leisurely trot jangled a loud but not
unmusical bell which hung from some hidden part of
the wagon’s anatomy, and warned all dwellers
on Rural Route No. 1 that the United States mail, ably
piloted by Mr. Truman Hobart, was on its way.

The jangling stopped at Applegate Farm, and Mr. Hobart
delved into a soap-box in his cart and extracted the
Sturgis mail, which he delivered into Kirk’s
outstretched hand. Mr. Hobart waited, as usual,
to watch, admire, and marvel at Kirk’s unhesitating
progress to the house, and then he clucked to the
horses and tinkled on his way.

There was a penciled note from Mrs. Sturgis, forwarded,
as always, from Westover Street, where she, of course,
thought her children were (they sent all their letters
for her to Mr. Dodge, that they might bear the Bedford
postmark—­and very difficult letters those
were to write!), a bill from the City Transfer Company
(carting: 1 table, etc., etc.), and
a letter from Mr. Dodge. It was this letter which
shadowed Applegate Farm and dug a new think-line in
Ken’s young forehead. For Rocky Head Granite
was, it seemed, by no means so firm as its name sounded.
Mr. Dodge’s hopes for it were unfulfilled.
It was very little indeed that could now be wrung
from it. The Fidelity was for Mother—­with
a margin, scant enough, to eke out the young Sturgises’
income. There was the bill for carting, other
bills, daily expenses. Felicia, reading over Ken’s
shoulder, bit her lip.

“Come back to town, my dear boy,” wrote
Mr. Dodge, “and I will try to get you something
to do. You are all welcome to my house and help
as long as you may have need.”

It had been dawning more and more on Ken that he had
been an idiot not to stay in town, where there was
work to do. He had hated to prick Phil’s
ideal bubble and cancel the lease on the farm,—­for
it was really she who had picked out the place,—­but
he was becoming aware that he should have done so.
This latest turn in the Sturgis fortunes made it evident
that something must be done to bring more money than
the invested capital yielded. There was no work
here; unless perhaps he might hire out as a farm-hand,
at small wages indeed. And he knew nothing of
farm work. Nevertheless, he and Felicia shook
their heads at Mr. Dodge’s proposal. They
sat at the table within the mellow ring of lamplight,
after Kirk had gone to bed, and thrashed out their
problem,—­pride fighting need and vanquishing
judgment. It was a good letter that Kenelm sent
Mr. Dodge, and the attorney shook his own head as
he read it in his study, and said: